


text me in the morning

by dansunedisco



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Drunk Sex, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Face-Fucking, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Safer Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-13 12:37:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2151000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He grabbed his cell and shot off a message to Scott, who was supposed to look after him and was totally going to die when Stiles saw him next. <b>who did i go home w/ last night?!</b></i>
</p><p>
  <i>It didn’t take long before Scott texted back. <b>DEREK. HALE. details? but nothing specific !!!!</b></i>
</p><p>
  <i>Stiles whimpered. “Oh no.”</i>
</p><p>Or: Stiles drinks too much, Derek tries to do the right thing, and it all works out in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	text me in the morning

**Author's Note:**

> Re: the **drunk sex** tag. If you feel like you could be triggered, please see end notes for further clarification.
> 
> Also, head's up for those with emetophobia. There's a super tiny reference to that in the beginning.

Stiles woke up drunk. It was the only explanation as to why he didn’t immediately wake up, puke his guts out, and then _die_. He’d had so much— _so much_ —to drink last night.

Lydia had kept passing her unwanted drinks off to him whenever they were bought for her, and Scott had kept offering him “sips” of his (and Stiles had to dutifully take long, large gulps because Scott could _not_ handle five tequila sunrises, three long islands, and two blue frogs on his own. It was a bro code mandate). Not to mention the pre-gaming their crew gotten up to a Kira’s before they had all crammed into a too-small cab and went to the club. Summer break reunions were capital-A awesome, but Stiles wasn’t eighteen anymore. When his hangover caught up to him and his liver, he knew he would be _wrecked_. 

He pulled himself out of the comfort of his bed, scratching idly at his stomach, eyes half-lidded and lazy, and promptly walked into the doorjamb. Stiles bounced backwards, scrabbling to steady himself on the dresser, and immediately dropped into panic mode because _he wasn’t supposed to have a dresser there._

In fact, he didn’t even _have_ a dresser in his old bedroom anymore. His dad had kept the old bed and the desk, but had mostly converted Stiles’s childhood bedroom into an office after he’d gone to college and officially moved out. He spun around, which was a mistake because _whoa,_ dizzy.

“This is not my room,” he croaked, raising his hands to his face in horror. “Holy. Shit. Fuck.” 

He was alone, thankfully, but there was no knowing how long that would last. A pile that looked like his clothes were lying haphazardly on the ground, and he scrambled to hop into his jeans lest the owner of the bedroom waltz in. Because Stiles absolutely, totally, did not _at all_ remember going home with anyone, nor spending the night, presumably getting it on. He didn’t feel like he had had sex, though; just felt a little achy and out of it, but he was sure that had more to do with the alcohol leaving his system. But, just to be safe, he didn’t want his first sober encounter with her—or him, who knew?—to be done in the nude. 

He grabbed his cell and shot off a message to Scott, who was supposed to look after him and was totally going to die when Stiles saw him next. **_who did i go home w/ last night?!_**

Scott texted back within two minutes. **_DEREK. HALE. details? but nothing specific !!!!_**

Stiles whimpered. “Oh _no_.” 

Derek Hale had been a few grades above Stiles and his friends in high school. He’d been one of the popular kids. Not because he’d flaunted it (unlike Jackson Whittemore, that douche), but because he was… good. Everyone had liked him. He’d played basketball, sat second chair violin in band, and never let anyone pick on anyone for who they were or what they liked to do. He’d ruled the school with deftly sculpted eyebrows, the king of cool.

It didn’t hurt that he’d totally been the best looking teenager in Beacon Hills, either. Or that he was the son of the town’s mayor, Talia Hale.

Stiles had nursed a low-level crush on him for _years_. But Derek had graduated and gone to college in New York before Stiles could confess. They hadn’t been close—exchanging Facebook messages every now and then, or hanging out by proxy because his younger sister, Cora, ran in Stiles’s social group. Sometimes.

But it had been a solid year since he’d last seen the guy and now he was, allegedly, in his bedroom. He needed to get out, and fast, while he still had a shred of dignity left. He slipped out of the room and tiptoed down the hall. The apartment was spacious and sparsely decorated, with only a few picture frames hanging here and there like afterthoughts. 

Stiles was almost home free, the front door a scant few feet away, when he stubbed his big toe against a sturdy-looking end table. He howled in pain and hastily slapped a hand over his mouth to keep the noise in, but it was too late. Derek Hale— _dear god, he looked even better than he did last year_ —burst into the living room like Stiles had declared he’d been shot. 

“Are you okay?” Derek asked, his voice gravelly with sleep. He had sleep creases on his cheek, and his hair was sticking up in the back. He should have looked ridiculous, but he looked downright sinful instead.

Stiles nodded vigorously. “Uh huh, totally. I just—fuck, who puts an end table there?”

Derek raised his eyebrows. “By the couches? Most people. Here, sit down. Do you think you broke it?” 

Stiles flopped down onto the couch and raised his throbbing foot. Derek came around and kneeled down in front of him, grabbed Stiles’s foot and tugged it towards his chest like it was nothing, like that was something regular people did. Stiles wanted to pull his foot away (his toes were hairy little bastards) but Derek held fast, staring, turning his foot this way and that. He ran a finger along the bottom of Stiles’s toe. The touch didn’t hurt, but Stiles gasped like it had, flushing brightly when Derek’s intense gaze flicked up to his.

“You could’ve cracked the bone,” he said, letting Stiles’s foot down gently. He rocked back onto his heels and stood up. “I’d get it checked out if the pain doesn’t go away soon.”

“Are you a toe doctor?” he asked absently, wiggling his big toe. It didn’t feel broken, but it didn’t feel great, either. 

Derek huffed out a laugh. “No, but I’ve broken enough fingers and toes to know the signs.”

“Playing basketball?”

Derek paused, like he wasn’t expecting Stiles to remember that he’d played. “Yeah, among other things,” he said. “Do you want to stay for breakfast, or…?”

Stiles wasn’t sure what to say, if this was Derek’s subtle way of telling him to get lost, so he shrugged and nodded like he wasn’t secretly screaming internally. He followed Derek to the kitchen, limping lightly, and sat down on the barstool overlooking the breakfast bar.

“Can I help?” he asked, watching as Derek went about pulling utensils and foodstuff from the cabinets and fridge. He wasn’t really into cooking, but he wasn’t sure what the procedure was for post hook-up breakfast.

“No,” Derek said, then tacked on a belated, “thanks.”

Stiles thrummed his fingers along the counter, letting the sound of eggshells cracking, oil popping, and whisks whisking fill the silence between them. Derek seemed content to have Stiles just watch. That was one thing Stiles remembered about Derek from high school. He talked, but he hadn’t been overly loud or loquacious, preferring silence over empty chatter.

Plus, being relieved of conversation duties meant that Stiles could drink his fill of a grown up Derek without embarrassing himself. Verbally, at least.

And, seriously, life wasn’t fair. Derek had been so, so good-looking at seventeen. Mind bogglingly handsome. All pale green eyes, cheekbones, and rippling muscle. Not the baby-faced, gangly mess Stiles had been. Now? Derek was out of this world gorgeous, and it was doing terrible, terrible things to Stiles. 

He was wearing a soft-looking, white t-shirt (which was a little too tight around the chest and biceps, but Stiles was _not_ complaining), and a pair of sweatpants that hung tantalizingly low on his hips. A strip of skin peeked out every time Derek raised his arms, and Stiles might have felt embarrassed for how intently he was looking for it, but he and Derek had already done the deed, so what did it matter? Other than the fact that he couldn’t remember any of it, of course.

He propped his chin on his hand with a big sigh. “Man, I can’t believe we hooked up,” he said, bulldozing straight into the conversation like he always did. 

Derek froze, eyes wide, spatula held over the eggs. “ _What?_ ” 

Which was totally not the response Stiles had been expecting, which meant either Derek was hoping Stiles had forgotten the incident entirely, or it meant they hadn’t hooked up _at all_ and Stiles had, once again in his life, firmly inserted his foot into his mouth. His bet was on the latter.

Mortification filled his gut. “Oh, _fuck_. I’d just assumed, with me waking up here—and—um, I’m gonna see myself out now.” 

Derek turned the stove off, flung the pan onto a cold burner, and practically jumped over the bar to keep Stiles from hobbling out the front door. “Wait,” he said.

Stiles shifted on his feet, waiting impatiently for Derek to say something more, but he didn’t. He tried to slip around the other man when the staring got to be too much, but Derek gently caught him by the waist and pulled him back.

“We didn’t hook up,” Derek said quietly. He was staring straight into Stiles’s eyes, as if willing him to be just as unashamed of this fact as he was. “But I really wanted to.”

Stiles almost gasped and fell into Derek’s chest like he was a swooning maiden from a harlequin romance novel. _Almost._ “But,” he sputtered, “we didn’t. Why?” 

Derek sighed, thumb rubbing small circles where they were on Stiles’s shirt. “I went with Cora to meet up with you guys,” he explained. “You were already pretty drunk when we got there.” 

Stiles tried to recall that point in the night, and groaned when the memory began to fill itself in. He’d been dancing with Scott, Kira, and Malia when he’d spotted Derek and Cora by a table with Allison, Lydia, and Isaac. He’d stomped through the crowd to get to them, alcohol fueling his determination. He couldn’t remember what he’d said, but he did remember talking to Derek for what felt like a long time. 

“I vaguely remember,” he said, cringing as embarrassment washed over him. “Very, very vaguely.” 

“I don’t do drunk hook-ups.” Derek cleared his throat. “I just wanted to make sure you’d be okay.” 

“So you took me home with you,” said Stiles, as the snippet of Derek pulling him along the sidewalk and up the stairs came flashing into his memory. “You put me to bed, made me drink a gallon of water, and said we’d… we’d talk in the morning. You said you wanted a sober, enthusiastic yes.” 

The tips of Derek’s ears went pink, but his expression was serious. “Always,” he said.

Stiles’s mouth went dry as he began to think about the entire night as a whole. The relief that he and Derek hadn’t hooked up while he’d been out of his mind nearly bowled him over. Even if he did want to have sex with Derek now, even if he would have been _okay_ was drunk sex, the fact that Derek wouldn’t and _didn’t_ touch him because he wasn’t entirely in his faculties was... a serious turn-on.

“Stiles?” Derek asked tentatively. His hand was still on Stiles’s waist, warmth bleeding into shirt and skin.

“You can’t be real,” Stiles breathed. “You were a freakin’ Disney prince in high school, and now you’re… unreal. Like, I would totally believe it if you told me little cartoon birds help you get dressed every morning.”

Derek eyes dropped down to Stiles’s mouth. “I promise that my intentions with you aren’t entirely in-line with my Disney prince image.”

Stiles did fall into Derek’s chest this time, hands coming up to curl into that t-shirt he would’ve been more than happy to rip straight off Derek’s body. “Oh, _hell yes_.”

 

Derek led him down the hallway, his pace unhurried. Stiles breathed in slowly, willing his heart rate to slow down. Derek’s room looked more lived in than the rest of the apartment, but it was still remarkably tidy. The blinds were drawn closed, a singular strip of morning light streaked across the king sized bed that took up most of the floor space.

“I’m going to brush my teeth,” Derek said, motioning towards the attached bathroom. “You’re more than welcome.”

Stiles used his finger and some toothpaste to get the job done, eyes averted shyly from Derek’s image in the mirror. They were about to _bone_ and yet they were acting out the most domestic thing ever. It was surreal, and Stiles was so going to rub it in everyone’s faces later.

Stiles finished first, and slipped out of the bathroom. He took off his shirt and jeans, then wondered if standing around naked was too presumptuous. Before he could whip his pants back on, Derek came out of the bathroom, clicking the light off behind him.

Derek groaned like a dying man when he caught full sight of him, and he stalked forward to wrap Stiles up in a frenzied kiss. He pulled away. “Can I go down on you?”

Stiles blanked. “Wha—yes! So much yes.”

“Come on. Stand over here.” Derek gently pushed Stiles away, manhandling him until he was standing at the edge of the bed. He pulled a condom out from the nightstand and put it into Stiles’s hand. Then Derek eased down and over onto his back, scooting forwards until his head hung over the side.

Stiles almost asked Derek what he was doing before putting two and two together, nearly creaming himself in the process. “Oh god,” he said, tearing the condom wrapper open and rolling it onto his hard dick with shaking fingers. 

Derek, ignoring his plight or perhaps because of it, reached over his head and grabbed the backs of Stiles’s thighs and slowly pulled him forward. Stiles got with the program, guiding his dick into Derek’s slack mouth, shuddering at the warm-wet sensation that engulfed him.

He pumped his hips slowly, carefully. Derek’s grip on his thighs tightened, urging him to go faster, and Stiles obliged, moaning when Derek groaned his approval.

He knew he wasn’t going to last long but, when he tried to pull off, Derek’s hold didn’t loosen—fingertips pressed so tight against his skin—and then he was coming, shuddering, pleasure blossoming in his gut. He watched, transfixed, as Derek’s throat worked around him. Stiles knew Derek wasn’t actually swallowing, but the image of Derek, with come dribbling from the corner of his mouth and down his cheek, flashed in his mind. It was a filthy one, but if it wasn’t what milked the rest of Stiles’s orgasm out, well. 

Derek let him go, and Stiles pulled away slowly. He slid the condom off, tied it, and dropped it into the waste bin near the bed, knees too weak to go any further than that. Derek rolled over and onto his knees, reaching up to pull Stiles down onto the bed. He slid his mouth over Stiles’s, leading him into kisses more hurried and sloppy than the last. He tasted like latex and minty toothpaste. It shouldn’t have been so hot, but it just felt right.

“Derek—“ he said, humping up into the cut of Derek’s hipbone, “I really, really want you to fuck me.”

Derek’s hands squeezed, running aimlessly over his back, his stomach, his ass. “Stiles, let me—let me—”

“Anything, anything—”

Derek flipped him over, slotting his tongue between Stiles’s ass without any warning or preamble, fingers gripping at his hipbones, wet heat working at his hole. Stiles arched back into the sizzling heat with a broken off yelp, feeling like he was burning up, like he was going to fucking _die_ from over-stimulation.

Stiles keened, blurting out a litany of things he wanted Derek to do to him, and Derek pressed a finger inside of his hole, tongue flicking the rim. It burned, but Stiles had been waiting for it, thinking about it, wanting it. Derek kept pumping his finger in and out, stopping to let Stiles set his own rhythm. It felt out of this world—his orgasm must have loosened him up, blissed him out, because he was thinking he could handle another finger, maybe two or three.

“That’s it,” murmured Derek. “Christ, if you could just see yourself…”

Stiles was actually pretty thankful he couldn’t. He was probably flushed red all over. Plus, he was on his hands and knees, rocking back onto a thick finger that was currently taking up residence in his asshole. “Do it,” he panted instead. “C’mon.”

Derek reached over to the nightstand and brought back a tiny bottle of lube. Stiles heard it pop open, jumped when the cool liquid was drizzled over his hole. Derek pulled his finger out, swirling the slick around, and pressed back in—withdrew, then back in with two. He pulled out again, pushed in, crooked a finger and rubbed. A burst of pleasure knocked Stiles’s arms out from underneath him, and he belatedly realized he had just yelled to high heaven. 

“Holy. Fuck,” he panted, trembling. Derek just kept rubbing over that spot, massaging relentlessly.

Derek could’ve been fingering him for hours—hell, days—and Stiles would’ve been none the wiser. He contented himself with thrusting back, rocking onto Derek’s fingers, opening up to take three when Derek introduced the extra digit. His skin was burning, sweat-covered and tight, like he was trying to unravel from the inside out.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” said Derek, rubbing his scruffy chin along Stiles's shoulder. “So hot… I can’t believe you’re letting me do this…”

“C’mon, please, please, I’m so, so ready—” 

Derek pulled his fingers out and reached out to get another condom. Stiles groaned at the emptiness, and groaned again when he felt the blunt tip of Derek’s cock catch against his rim. Derek pressed in slowly, and Stiles bore down on all of him, choking at the sensation. It didn’t take long before Derek was sunk all the way in, Stiles panting heavily at the blunt weight filling him up.

Derek rocked slowly at first, knees slipping along the bedspread, spreading Stiles’s legs wider. Then Derek found his rhythm; a hard, fast-paced fuck. Stiles went along for the ride, moaning, absently realizing his dick was hard yet again, when Derek hunched over his back and changed the angle, bumping against that spot once, twice, three times—

Stiles came again so hard he saw spots in his vision. Derek followed behind with a shuddering sigh and a bitten off groan. Stiles slid forward on to the bed, arms unable to hold him up anymore, hardly caring that he was lying in a pool of his own come and sweat.

 

He woke up sometime later being aggressively spooned, one of Derek’s arms looped around his chest, one muscular thigh slotted between his two. He took a deep breath in and exhaled, still riding that line between dozing and wakefulness. It felt like he had slept straight through whatever hangover had been lurking for him in the wings.

 _Score_.

“Hey,” he said quietly, fingers curling around the forearm holding him tight.

Derek snuffled dryly against his neck. “Hey.”

“I should probably… go,” he said, not really wanting to go at all.

Derek shifted impossibly closer, lips brushing his nape. “If you want to.”

“Would be it too forward of me to say I really, really don’t?” 

He could feel Derek smile against his skin, and that was answer enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Re: the drunk sex tag. Stiles and Derek do not actually have sex while either of them are intoxicated. There's just the assumption that they had (from Stiles's side).


End file.
